The Secret History of the Pink Carnation

by Lauren Willig

  ‘That does sound promising, if somewhat vague. I take it you’ve had someone watching the major roads and waterways?’

  ‘I will ignore the implicit insult,’ Geoff said calmly. ‘Yes, I have. In addition to another three cases of brandy in the cellar, we also have a few leads. Whatever these shipments are, Georges Marston is up to his neck in it.’

  Richard’s lip curled in distaste. ‘Why does that come as no surprise?’ he inquired of the portrait on the wall behind Geoff’s head.

  The portrait, presumably an ancestor of the former owner of the house, which Richard had purchased furnished, sneered silently. One might assume that the gentleman in the portrait would have turned up his nose at the likes of Marston, even had he been able to speak. While Marston claimed a relation with a distinguished English family through his father, it was an open secret that he had been raised by his French mother in circumstances that could hardly be called respectable. Having wrangled his father’s family into buying him a commission in the English army, he had promptly deserted in the midst of battle and decamped to the French.

  ‘Marston has been frequenting the docks,’ Geoff continued. ‘I’ve had our boys watching him. We’ve noticed a pattern – every few days, someone will come to his lodgings with a note, and then he hares off in a carriage to the waterfront.’

  ‘Then what? Oh, devil take it!’ Richard mopped at his lap, where a little puddle of soup was collecting from the spoon that he had suspended halfway to his lips.

  ‘Not the devil, Marston,’ Geoff corrected with a twitch of his lips. ‘I hope those weren’t new trousers?

  Richard scowled.

  ‘At any rate,’ Geoff went on, ‘he always takes an unmarked black coach and four—’

  ‘I thought he only had that flashy curricle of his.’ Richard made sure to put his soup spoon down before speaking. ‘That hideous bright red thing.’

  ‘It wouldn’t be at all bad if it weren’t for the colour,’ commented Geoff wistfully.

  ‘Marston?’ Richard prompted.

  ‘Right.’ Geoff shook himself out of his reverie of curricles and phaetons. ‘The use of the carriage heightened our suspicions. We traced it to a livery stable not far from Marston’s lodgings.’

  ‘The curricle would be too noticeable,’ mused Richard. Seeing the gleam of the carriage lover rekindle in Geoff’s eye, Richard hastily asked, ‘What does he do once at the docks?’

  ‘Cleverly disguised as a sailor, I followed Marston to a rather disreputable tavern called the Staves and Cutlass. They named it that for good reason, I might add,’ Geoff commented thoughtfully. ‘It was quite a good thing that I was wearing a hook.’

  ‘And there I was with the debutantes while you were having all the fun,’ mourned Richard.

  ‘Calling it fun might be stretching matters a bit. When I wasn’t otherwise occupied in retaining my skin in one piece, I did notice Marston first engage in conversation with a bunch of ruffians, and then slip into a back room. When he didn’t return, I left the establishment just in time to see Marston and his cronies finish loading the carriage with a number of brown paper packages.’

  ‘What were they?’

  Geoff cast Richard a mildly exasperated look. ‘If we knew that, why would we still be following him? However, I can tell you that at least some of the shipments have made their way to the Hotel de Balcourt.’

  ‘Balcourt?’

  ‘You know, little toady of a man, always hanging about the Tuilleries,’ Geoff clarified.

  ‘I know who you mean,’ Richard said through a mouthful of soup. Swallowing, he explained, ‘It’s just a devilish odd coincidence. I shared a boat – and a carriage – with Balcourt’s sister and cousin.’

  ‘I didn’t realise he had a sister.’

  ‘Well, he does.’ Richard abruptly pushed away his empty bowl.

  ‘What a great stroke of luck! Could you use the acquaintance with the sister to discover more about Balcourt’s activities?’

  ‘That,’ Richard said grimly, ‘is not an option.’

  Geoff eyed him quizzically. ‘I realise that any sister of Balcourt’s is most likely repugnant at best, but you don’t need to propose to the girl. Just flirt with her a bit. Take her for a drive, call on her at home, use her as an entrée into the house. You’ve done it before.’

  ‘Miss Balcourt is not repugnant.’ Richard twisted in his chair, and stared at the door. ‘What the devil is keeping supper?’

  Geoff leant across the table. ‘Well, if she’s not repugnant, then-what’s the – ah.’

  ‘Ah? Ah? What the deuce do you mean by ‘ah’? Of all the nonsensical…’

  ‘You’ – Geoff pointed at him with fiendish glee – ‘are unsettled not because you find her repugnant, but because you find her not repugnant.’

  Richard was about to deliver a baleful look in lieu of a response, when he was saved by the arrival of the footman bearing a large platter of something covered with sauce. Richard leant forward and speared what looked like it might once have been part of a chicken, as the footman whisked off with his soup dish.

  ‘Have some,’ Richard suggested to Geoff, ever so subtly diverting the conversation to culinary appreciation.

  ‘Thank you.’ Undiverted, Geoff continued, ‘Tell me about your Miss Balcourt.’

  ‘Leaving aside the fact that she is by no means my Miss Balcourt’ – Richard ignored the sardonic stare coming from across the table – ‘the girl is as complete an opposite to her brother as you can imagine. She was raised in England, somewhere out in the countryside. She’s read Homer in the original Greek—’

  ‘This is serious,’ murmured Geoff. ‘Is she comely?’

  ‘Comely?’

  ‘You know, nice hair, nice eyes, nice…’ Geoff made a gesture that Richard would have expected more readily from Miles.

  ‘She doesn’t look like her brother, if that’s what you’re asking,’ Richard bit out.

  Geoff slapped the table. ‘But if you’re taken with her, that’s wonderful!’ His lips twitched. ‘You can court her and investigate her brother at the same time.’

  Richard gave the napkin he had just lifted to his lips an irritable twitch. ‘No, I cannot. First of all, you know that I will never again allow my personal life to interfere with a mission. And secondly… secondly,’ he repeated more loudly, as Geoff opened his mouth to protest, ‘did I forget to mention that she hates me?’

  ‘That’s quick work. How did you get her to hate you in all of one day?’

  ‘It was a day and a half.’

  Something between a snort and a snicker escaped Geoff’s lips.

  ‘Easy for you to laugh,’ retorted Richard.

  ‘No arguing with that,’ chuckled Geoff. ‘No, really, what did you do?’

  Richard planted his elbows on the polished wood of the table. ‘I told her I worked for Bonaparte.’

  ‘And that was all?’

  Richard’s lips quirked. ‘She’s rather passionate on the subject of the Revolution.’

  ‘Then why is she—’

  ‘I know, I know, I asked her the same thing.’

  ‘And you won’t tell her—’

  ‘No!’ Richard pushed back from the table so hard that the legs of his chair nearly splintered.

  ‘You could let me finish a sentence once in a while, you know,’ Geoff said mildly.

  ‘Sorry,’ Richard muttered.

  Geoff took advantage of Richard’s momentary silence to say, ‘I’m not suggesting you go shouting your identity to every comely young lady who wanders your way. But if this one is special, wouldn’t it be better to take the chance of confiding in her – in a limited way,’ he added hastily, ‘than risk losing her? If she’s so fanatical about the Revolution, it seems rather unlikely that she would betray you.’

  Richard was mustering his objections when Geoff silenced him again with the softly spoken words, ‘Not every woman is as shallow as Deirdre.’

  Richard pressed his lips together. ‘You s
ound like my mother.’

  ‘Since I like your mother, I’ll take that as a compliment, and not as the insult for which it was intended.’ Geoff leant both elbows on the table. ‘In some ways, it was a fortunate escape for you.’

  ‘But not for Tony.’

  ‘You can’t go on blaming yourself for Tony’s death. Good gad, the odds of something like that happening were nonexistent! It was an accident, Richard, a foolish, unfortunate accident.’

  ‘It would never have happened if infatuation hadn’t impeded my judgment.’

  Richard remembered the nervous anticipation he had felt each time he galloped over to call on Deirdre, the way the heady scent of her perfume made his pulse race and his head spin. Funny, he couldn’t remember exactly what she looked like. He had once written a sonnet to her blue, blue eyes, but he could recall the sonnet, with its limping meter and forced rhymes, far better than he could the eyes themselves. And yet this fuzzy image of a woman, so utterly unmemorable now, had exercised a strong enough effect on him to make him completely forget his obligations. Let this be a lesson to you, he advised himself. Passion was fleeting; dishonour lingered. Sic transit…well, everything.

  Richard tried to think of a more fitting Latin tag, but couldn’t. Amy would probably… Richard quelled that counterproductive thought before it could go any further.

  Geoff poured himself a second cup of claret. ‘Besides, as hideously as the business with Deirdre ended, she wasn’t malicious, just henwitted. It was pure ill luck that her maid happened to be a French operative.’

  Richard closed his eyes and pressed the heel of his hand hard against his forehead. ‘So it wasn’t Deirdre, it was her bloody French maid who was the spy. That didn’t make any difference to Tony.

  ‘It exonerated her of ill intent.’

  ‘But not me of idiocy.’ Richard’s green eyes darkened with remembered pain. ‘Don’t you see? That makes it that much worse. A chance word to her maid while she was fixing her hair – her damned hair! – and Tony’s life was forfeit. Say I tell Amy…’

  ‘So that’s her name.’

  ‘And Amy makes some comment – in strictest secrecy, because, of course, these things are always passed along in strictest secrecy,’ Richard spat out, ‘to her cousin Jane. Jane’s a discreet sort of girl; she might not repeat it. But the house is teeming with servants. Even if they don’t have a bloody lady’s maid in the room with them, there’s bound to be a footman lurking somewhere about. And then there’s Balcourt himself, who may or may not be on Bonaparte’s payroll, but who would do anything to ingratiate himself to him. How long would the League of the Purple Gentian last if my identity were to become known to him? I give it the time it would take for him to call his carriage and waddle his way to the consul’s study.’ Richard raised his wineglass in an ironic salute. ‘Farewell, Purple Gentian.’

  ‘That’s only the very worst case.’

  Richard’s lips twisted in a humourless smile. ‘Isn’t that what we ought to plan for then? I can’t risk it, Geoff. Even if there weren’t other impediments, I couldn’t risk it. Too many people depend on me.’

  Geoff looked at him steadily, a friend of too long standing to be daunted by either irony or idealism. ‘You know what Miles would tell you if he were here. He’d say, “You’re being too bloody noble.” And, in this instance, he’d be right.’

  Breaking Geoff’s gaze, Richard lounged back in his chair and changed the subject. ‘Did anything else thrilling transpire while I was away? Like Delaroche choking on a chicken bone?’

  Geoff pushed aside the remains of his own cold chicken. ‘Delaroche, I regret to inform you, is still alive and kicking. I must say, the man does have an instinct for theatre. He strode into the Tuilleries the other day and informed Bonaparte that, as the Purple Gentian hadn’t struck for over a fortnight, it was clear that he, Delaroche, had scared him away.’

  ‘That will never do,’ Richard drawled. He rocked back and forth in his chair, a devilish gleam creeping into his emerald eyes. ‘After all, it would be deuced unkind of us to let the man continue to entertain these delusions, wouldn’t you say?’

  Geoff hunched forward, his own eyes taking on an answering sheen. ‘What do you think one might do to disabuse him of these unhealthy fantasies?’

  ‘Well…’ Richard toyed with the stem of his wineglass, admiring the way the candlelight struck crimson glints off the dark liquid. ‘One might raid his secret files…but one has done that already, so what’s the fun in that?’

  ‘Or,’ Geoff mused, getting into the spirit of the game, ‘one might leave mocking notes on his pillow, but…’

  ‘One has done that already, too,’ Richard concluded sadly. ‘Does Delaroche have any files we haven’t looked at yet?’

  Geoff shook his head. ‘No. I’d say you made a rather thorough job of that. How about rescuing someone from the Temple prison? We haven’t done that in a while, and it’s sure to infuriate Delaroche.’

  ‘The very thing!’ Richard rocked upright so fast that he banged into the table, setting dishes and cutlery jumping. ‘I knew I kept you around for a reason!’

  Geoff grimaced. ‘You flatter me.’

  ‘Think nothing of it,’ Richard advised him graciously. ‘Young Falconstone has been imposing on the hospitality of the Bastille for far too long. We wouldn’t want to overstrain their supplies.’

  ‘The mouldy bread and mouldier water?’

  ‘Don’t forget the occasional rat as a treat on holidays. I’m sure the French consider it a great delicacy. Like frogs, or cow’s brains.’

  Geoff groaned. ‘No wonder they had a revolution! They were probably all suffering from chronic indigestion.’

  ‘There may be something in that theory.’ Richard pushed back from the table and stood. ‘But let’s save writing your History of the Causes of the French Revolution for another night. We have far more diverting activities ahead of us…’

  Chapter Twelve

  In a little room in the Ministry of Police, a man stood looking out the window. His hands were clasped loosely behind his back, fingers and arms relaxed. The hair combed forward on his forehead in the classical style gave him the serene air of a bust of a Roman senator, a man of calm and gravitas. But when he spoke, his voice shook with controlled rage.

  ‘This has gone on too long, Delaroche. Bonaparte is displeased. I am displeased. This man cannot be allowed to make us the laughingstock of Europe.’ The Minister of Police slowly turned and fixed icy eyes on his subordinate. ‘What do you intend to do about it?’

  ‘Kill him.’

  A whir of movement, and a silver-handled letter opener quivered as if in fear, its point embedded in the blotter of Delaroche’s desk. The sentry at the door cringed back, but Fouché regarded the palpitating knife with a jaundiced eye. ‘That’s all very well, but you have to find him first, do you not? How many years has it been, Delaroche? Four? Five?’

  ‘He won’t live to see another.’ Delaroche’s sallow countenance burnt with the fanatic fervour of a sixteenth-century inquisitor. ‘I’ll draw up a short list of suspects. My best men will shadow them day and night. They won’t so much as piss but we’ll know of it! He will not slip through my fingers again. I’ll have him strung up before you within the month.’ Delaroche’s lips curled into a feral snarl.

  ‘See that you do,’ Fouché said coolly. ‘The invasion of England relies on the strictest secrecy. We cannot afford any more breaches of security.’

  Reaching over, he retrieved his hat from the corner of Delaroche’s desk. ‘We can only hope that the papers have not yet got wind of this latest embarrassment. I suggest you hold to your promise, or the Purple Gentian may not be the only man to swing. Good day, Delaroche.’

  The door clicked smartly shut behind the Minister of Police.

  Delaroche stalked over to his desk, flipped back the tails of his coat, and sat down heavily. On the blotter, where Fouché had tossed it upon his entrance, lay a small, cream-coloured card.

&n
bsp; Fingers steepled in front of him, Delaroche stared at the note. The card itself was useless. Delaroche had an entire drawer full of nothing but cream-coloured cards bearing the Gentian’s distinctive purple stamp. He had long ago traced the cards to a very exclusive stationer in London which boasted a wide clientele among the ton. If Delaroche were to go on the make of the paper alone, he could easily accuse anyone from the Prince of Wales to Lady Mary Wortley Montague. Inside – Delaroche did not need to release the card from the letter opener to look; he recalled the contents in painful detail – inside, that rogue had inscribed a bill for the accommodations. One shilling for stale bread, one shilling for rank water, two shillings for rats, three shillings for amusing insults from the guards, and so on, before signing it with the customary small purple flower. On top of the note had been a small pile of English coins, as per the reckoning.

  Damn him! The list was in Falconstone’s hand – Delaroche knew the hand-writing of every man whose correspondence he had ever intercepted. Delaroche could picture the Gentian standing there, dictating, in the middle of the most carefully guarded prison in Paris. The man’s cheek was unbelievable.

  Which would make killing him all the sweeter.

  Reaching into a desk drawer, Delaroche retrieved a plain sheet of writing paper. He dabbed a quill savagely into the inkpot, wishing it were a knife plunging into the Gentian’s heart. He would have that pleasure soon enough. The man had played him for a fool one too many times. Delaroche had enjoyed the game; he would be the last to deny that. He had enjoyed the excitement of an adversary worthy of his attention – most of these would-be spies were pitifully easy to discover, and even more pitifully easy to coerce into full disclosure. A few fingernails pulled and they babbled like babes. Pathetic.

  Attacking the paper with an explosion of inkblots, Delaroche scrawled the first name on his list: Sir Percy Blakeney, Baronet.

  The Gentian had to be an Englishman, of that Delaroche was sure. Only an Englishman would have such an utterly inappropriate sense of humour. Who else but an Englishman would disguise himself as a dancing bear or leave itemised payment for a jailer? Those English! Didn’t they realise that espionage was no laughing matter?